


BDSM (Big Dangerous Space Man)

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Time Lords and Ladies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22244704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Clara encounters a Time Lord with a somewhat unusual name...
Relationships: The Doctor (Doctor Who)/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 14
Kudos: 28





	BDSM (Big Dangerous Space Man)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xXdreameaterXx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx/gifts).



> For Chrissi; a conversation with whom inspired this fic. Because seriously, 'the Master'? Down boy.

“Honestly,” Clara mutters under her breath, circling the console of her TARDIS and wondering, for the hundredth time, why exactly Time Lords had to pick such ridiculous monikers for themselves. Admittedly, the Doctor’s made sense – it was a promise, after all, and had even been the source of the English word for a person of medicine. It was a job title more than anything else, and it had long since ceased to be strange or weird to her. The Doctor the Time Lord had as much in common with the doctor who had once prescribed her antibiotics and measured her fairly inconsiderable growth spurts as… well, as a spoon had with a tree. The two were entirely separate concepts in her mind.

She’d had to pick a name for herself, once she started travelling the universe. When you pitch up in a TARDIS, people tended to assume you were a Time Lord, whether you liked it or not, and somewhere between that and her lack of ability to die she had spawned a few myths, so she’d picked out a name rather than let strangers call her ‘Clara.’ It had seemed strangely intimate for them to use her forename, and so she’d gone with ‘the Teacher.’ She partly regrets that choice now; regrets how preachy it sounds, and how bossy, but then she _is_ bossy, so in some ways it’s apt. She’d been a teacher on Earth, and now she’s a teacher in space. That much makes sense.

So, the Teacher and the Doctor. Not bad. Two roughly normal names, albeit ones that serve as job titles.

But ‘the Master’? Who does he think he is? It’s braggy, it’s presumptuous, and it’s weird. There’s something intrinsically weird about demanding random strangers call you ‘Master,’ and not just because of the overtones of servitude and superiority. There’s something somewhat kinky about it, especially when you consider the fact that the Master has a predilection for people kneeling in front of him, often begging for their lives. Maybe there’s something he’s not telling them all; maybe he’s secretly got some kind of exhibitionist fetish, and he gets off on making people verbally submit to him. Maybe he likes the power trip, or maybe he’s just a control freak. Either way, it’s weird.

She’s just had another run in with him, and while she admits that the new outfit is a definite improvement on the previous look – guyliner and goatees have never been flattering on anyone, and he’d only needed a man bun to become a Truly Certified Tosser™ – she can’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia for Missy, whose outfit brought some much needed colour, and who never insisted anyone call her Mistress.

At least not outside the bedroom.

Clara’s cheeks colour at this thought and she busies herself with circling the console, flicking switches and throwing her TARDIS into the Time Vortex in a bid to outrun the Master and his bizarre, Wizard of Oz-inspired TARDIS. She wonders idly whether it changes shape, or if it’s stuck like that for good, and she can’t help but question whether he ever went anywhere near L. Frank Baum.

“Focus, Oswald,” she says aloud, checking the screens. There’s no sign of a pursuing ship, so she allows herself to let out a sigh of relief and sinks into the armchair that the TARDIS had conveniently materialised in a corner of the console room one day. She’s considering making herself a cuppa when the monitor flicks on of its own accord, and an unfamiliar voice blares over the speakers as the screen displays grey static.

“Hello?” a man’s voice asks uncertainly. “Hello? Helloooooo? Is anyone there?”

“Urm,” she gets to her feet, approaching the console reluctantly. “Hello, yes, I am. Who are you?”

The static on the screen clears, revealing a dark-haired man with high, arched cheekbones that give him a vaguely statuesque elegance. He’s leaning forwards, and she realises he’s undoubtedly stood in his own TARDIS; she gives the place a quick once-over from what little she can see, and decides she isn’t a fan of the wallpaper.

“Ah,” he says, breaking into a smile. He’s got piercing green eyes that seem to see into the depths of her soul, and she can’t help but be vaguely disquieted. “Hello. Who am I speaking to?”

“The Teacher,” she says pragmatically. “Who are you?”

“Never mind who I am. Was that you back there? Dealing with the Master?”

“It might have been,” she counters, evasive to the last. “Why?”

“Oh, I just wanted to congratulate you,” his smile widens into an enormous grin. “He’s been a pompous ass ever since our days at the Academy, and he’s only got worse in recent years. He used to be almost tolerable, you know. Not a nice chap, but a bright one, and you could actually have a conversation of longer than five minutes without him trying to kill you or your entire family. It’s a shame, really. He had such potential, and yet he had to go and get himself enamoured with the Doctor, and then spend half his life trying to blow them up in a bid to get their attention.”

“Urm,” Clara manages, during a brief pause in the diatribe. “Yes?”

“Foiling him used to be a particular pleasure of mine, but he put a proximity device on his TARDIS and now I can’t get within 300 years of him in any direction. It’s most inconvenient, especially if I’m trying to nip back to the Renaissance and commission anything from one of the Old Masters.”

“I bet,” Clara says weakly. “Sorry, I didn’t know there were other Time Lords out there.”

“She says, as though she were one,” the stranger arches an eyebrow, and Clara bites her lip. “Yes, I know about that; we all do. Most of us think it’s funny, although the Corsair has got a bit of a grump on about it. Thinks you’re ruining the family name, so to speak. He’s always been a rather miserable excuse for a Gallifreyan though, so don’t mind him.”

“The Corsair?”

“Yes, he’s kicking around somewhere, undoubtedly off getting tattooed or skulking around some human colonies. The Doctor isn’t the only one with a fondness for your species, you know.”

“Good.”

“And the Rani was last seen around… oh, I don’t know, I think it was last forty-first century Byzantella; she was conducting some experiments on the locals. Don’t look so alarmed; the locals are barely-sentient amoebas.”

“Isn’t that what you think about my species?” Clara asks with distaste, wrinkling her nose. “Barely-sentient amoebas?”

“You’re the exception,” the stranger clarifies kindly, in a tone that is evidently meant to be complimentary. “Don’t you worry.”

“Thanks,” she mutters. “Are there any more of you out there? Or just you three?”

“Oh, there’s a fair few of us,” he says brightly. “We get around, you see.”

“Good to know,” Clara grimaces. “What did you say your name was, again?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, could you? It’d be nice to put a name to your face.”

“It’s urm…” his cheeks colour. “Well, the thing is…”

“What?” Clara asks, her suspicions beginning to elevate.

“You have to understand…” he mumbles, looking abruptly embarrassed. “I was very young when I chose my name; _very_ young, just a mere child of two hundred.”

Her worries somewhat alleviated, Clara only stares.

“I didn’t know… I just saw it in the Encyclopaedia Gallifreya, and I wasn’t interested on reading all the related entries, so I didn’t… it was a human thing, so I thought it must be cool…”

“What is it?” Clara asks bluntly, and the stranger mumbles something unintelligible.

“Sorry?” she quizzes, frowning. Maybe she heard wrongly. Please, please let her have heard wrongly. “What was that?”

“I said,” the stranger says, their cheeks now maroon. “I’m the Daddy.”

Clara’s laughter peals around the console room, and the screen goes abruptly black, the stranger apparently taking offence, as she sinks onto the floor, holding onto her stomach as she laughs.

“Oh, my god,” she manages, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “You wonderful, idiotic race.”


End file.
